through remnants of midnight’s rain,
illuminates the residual gray
clinging to nature’s morning. Eyes
search for disruptive streak of lingering
silver, refusing to relinquish
the slick elegance of moonlight’s glow.
Failure: the abysmal haze holds,
complete. I shrivel
deeper into my own
skin, an automatic escape
attempt, focus on following a
now less discernible path home.
Stripped and left
unbreathing. Green life
of sun cannot stand
weight of white robe,
brushed on then brushed off
by the wind. Fickle
coat of wilting, of remaining,
cover’s coma holding. Pattern
waiting for first crack,
a spring shoot.
Alone Among the Pines
a tiny sprig fights for light.
Its monstrous mothers stand vigil,
but unacquiescing. They will not part
their branches in empathy of survival’s fight.
Instead they wait in silent observation,
understanding the toughest barks are built
on fleeting rays, those warming moments
when wind shifts, when shade and shadows part.
A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming: Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, haiku and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
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